


Easier Said Than Done

by lholt34



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Crossover, Established Relationship Sort Of, M/M, Multi, Multi-ships, On Hiatus, Reichenbach Fall Theory, Wholock, doctor who - Freeform, multi-fandom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:45:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lholt34/pseuds/lholt34
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor discovered two time lords following the Ponds' deaths. These two time lords were named Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and they travelled with him for years before becoming human to lead 'quiet' lives in London. The Doctor watches out for them from afar, forgotten and unknown to the pair, but certain events lead to him needing to take more direct intervention in their lives. Set pre-Clara, pre-Reichenbach-Fall. Updates every Saturday at inconsistent times.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

             "Sherlock—oh, John, you’re here,” Mrs. Hudson said. “There’s a man at the door for you and Sherlock.”

            “Sherlock’s gone out,” John said from his armchair, barely looking up from his paper. “Do you recognize him?” After months living with a consulting detective who regularly earned himself death threats, John had learned to be careful, and perhaps more than a little paranoid.

            “He was here last week, about the drains,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Now he says he’s come to inspect the toilets.”

            “The plumbing inspector fellow, what’s his name, Smith?” John asked.

            “It would seem so,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Don’t you worry, John, I asked for his credentials again. Can’t be too careful, not with Sherlock around.”

            John smiled and nodded, then stood up from his armchair with a sigh. “Alright, let him up,” he said.

            Mrs. Hudson hadn’t made it down two steps when the man appeared, skidding around the corner and bounding up the stairs. “No need, Mrs. Hudson, I’m on my way!” he said, and practically leapt into the flat. He was dressed as he had been during his visit the week before, in a tweed coat, red bowtie, and black trousers, all of which seemed completely inappropriate for the job of a plumbing inspector. His long, shaggy brown hair flopped into his face, and he gave John a grin that was nothing short of exuberant. “Hello, mate!” he said. He put both hands on either side of John’s face and kissed the air beside his head. John blinked. The plumbing inspector had done the same thing last weekend. Mrs. Hudson gave her usual little sigh of what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you-people before heading back downstairs.

            “Er, yes, hello,” John said.

            “London plumbing inspector,” the man said, waving a small piece of paper in John’s face. “You can call me Smith. Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

            “Yes, you were here last week, we went through this,” John said. He was about to ask why it was such a big deal for him to be ‘still in one piece,’ but then remembered that his flatmate was a deranged sociopath who seemed bent on destroying John’s personal life, and decided that Smith’s comment was justified. “You came to inspect the drains.”

            “Did I really?” Smith asked, brow furrowing slightly. “Well, it seems I’m going to have to do some travelling sometime soon.”

            John had no earthly idea what that remark could mean but he gestured in the direction of the loo. “All yours,” he said.

            Smith looked back and forth between John and the direction he was pointing in, looking completely puzzled. Then his eyes lit up. “Ah, right! Toilets!” He practically skipped down the hall. It might have been only because he was so used to Sherlock’s lack of emotion, but John found this man’s over-the-top enthusiasm to be rather disconcerting. Surely nobody could be _that_ cheerful all the time.

            Keys jingled in the lock as Sherlock walked in. He wore, for some reason, a white lab coat covered in pink feathers and specked with mud. “John, we need to—” A few steps into the room, Sherlock stopped dead. He swiveled around, his keen eyes picking out…well, whatever he picked out, John had no idea. Then Sherlock turned to face John. “There is a man in this house, a man who is not you.”

            “That’s right,” John said with a nod.

            “The same man who was here last week, by your unsettled appearance,” Sherlock said.

            John nodded again.

            “And he’s gone to fix the loo?” Sherlock asked.

            “Technically, _inspect_ ,” John said, making air quotes around the word “inspect.”

            “And Mrs. Hudson checked his credentials again, otherwise you’d never have let him in the house,” Sherlock added.

            “That’s about it,” John said. “He kissed my cheeks and went to go look at our toilet.”

            Sherlock let out an annoyed hissing sound and opened his mouth to say something else, but before he could, Smith bounced back into the room. He clapped his hands loud enough to make John jump and Sherlock blink. “There! All inspected. Now, anyone fancy a cuppa?” He walked straight into their kitchen.

            Sherlock scowled. “John!” he whispered, pushing him forward. “Get him out!”

            “It’s alright, he did this last week,” John said. He frowned. “Though now that I think of it, that was a bit weird, too.”

“Get him out!” Sherlock repeated.

“What, me? Why do I have to?”

            “Because I’m covered in flamingo feathers and mud, and I feel that a man cannot be taken seriously when he is wearing pink feathers, now _go_!” he shoved John towards the kitchen. With a grimace, John stepped into the small kitchen. Smith stood on his tiptoes to get the tea out of the shelf, then grabbed the kettle from the oven, and in a blur of movement filled it at the sink. He set it to boil on the stove with a loud _clang_ , then reached into the cupboard for three cups.

            An alarm blared in John’s head. “How did you do that?”

            “Do what?” Smith asked, running a hand through his shaggy bangs. He was staring pensively at the kettle on the stove, as if he expected it to explode at any moment.

            “Know where the tea and the cups were,” John said, growing wary.

            “Oh,” Smith said. He looked at the cups he had set on the countertop like he didn’t know how they got there. “Must’ve seen it last week, when I was inspecting…the drains.”

            “Ah, right,” John said, nervous. He walked back to Sherlock. “He’s mad,” he told his flatmate.

            “Absolutely,” he whispered back. “Why didn’t you tell him to leave?”

            “Because, Sherlock, he’s making us tea, and…” John felt a little stupid, but he said it anyway. “It’s nice to have tea that I didn’t have to make.”

            “Oh, don’t be thick, John,” Sherlock said, rolling his ice blue eyes. “He could be putting poison in that tea.”

            “Here we are!” Smith said, sounding much too happy over a bit of tea. “All done!” He carried three cups of steaming tea, balancing the third carefully between the other two. John quickly grabbed a cup from him before something tragic could happen. Sherlock gazed at Smith impassively.

            “How did you finish that tea so quickly?” he asked, not changing his facial expression. “Water doesn’t boil that fast.”

            “Oh, I, uh, I just reworked some of the circuits of your oven. No big deal,” Smith said, holding a cup out to Sherlock with a hopeful expression on his face. John sank into his armchair and sighed, holding his un-drunk cup of tea for courtesy’s sake. _Here we go,_ he thought.

            “There’s no way to rework circuits to boil water faster,” Sherlock said. He took the cup and peered at its contents rather than drinking them. “And even if there was, there’s no way you could have reworked those circuits in such a short amount of time.”

            “I learned how to do it well,” the man said smoothly.

            “And where did you learn that, at plumbing school?” Sherlock asked with just a hint of a smirk. John knew that expression well, it was the expression Sherlock wore when he felt that he was about to win an argument.

            “Actually, yes,” Smith said. “I dabble.” He didn’t flinch when Sherlock tilted his head slightly to give him a skeptical look.

            “May I see those credentials of yours, Mr. Smith?” Sherlock asked.

            “Of course,” Smith answered. He set down his cup of tea on the coffee table, a familiar gesture which John found highly unsettling. He fished around in his pocket a moment, then pulled out a small piece of paper, which he handed to Sherlock. John’s flatmate scanned the paper, eyes narrowed. Then he handed the paper back to Smith.

            “Very well,” he said. His eye twitched slightly. John was familiar with this look, too. It meant that Sherlock couldn’t quite understand how, but in some way, something was off. Sherlock abruptly turned on his heel and stalked towards his bedroom, away from the plumbing inspector. “And now if you would please leave, Mr. Smith, John and I are very busy.”

            John glanced towards the man, ready to apologize for his flatmate’s rudeness. To his surprise, Smith’s face had darkened. He looked downward, his mouth slackened, and his shoulders seemed to hunch. It wasn’t a big change, but it was such an absence from his usual charismatic smile and cheerful attitude that John was taken aback.

            Then Smith’s cheery smile was back, plastered over his face. “Right, yes, I’m sure you’ve got work to do. I’ll be off, now. I’ll see you next week, then? To inspect the showers?” he asked John.

            “The show—” John started, then swallowed his words. “Of course, the showers. I’ll see you to the door?”

            “No need, I’m perfectly aware of where the door is,” Smith said, chuckling half-heartedly. “I’ll just get out of your way.” He left the cup of tea on the coffee table. John followed him to the top of the landing.

            Smith was already down the stairs and almost out of the building when he suddenly stopped. “John,” the plumbing inspector said. John hesitated, a little taken aback by such a direct address from a total stranger.

“Er, yes?” John asked.

“If you don’t mind my asking…I mean, I hope I don’t sound like I’m prying, but…are you and Sherlock together?”

John was so startled by the question that he laughed. “No, no, Sherlock and I are just flatmates. Friends. Nothing else.” _Sometimes I wish there was something else,_ a little voice at the back of his mind seemed to say. John shook his head to clear it, unsure of where that thought had come from. “Just friends,” John repeated.

            “Right,” Smith said. For one second, John thought he saw his face shadow again, but the expression was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. “Sorry. Well, then, I should be off! Have a good day, John,” he said before ducking out the door onto the street.

            John frowned, shaking his head again. “Odd,” he said. Then he walked back inside 221B.


	2. Chapter 2

Back at the TARDIS, the Doctor rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands and sighed. It was harder than he’d thought it would be to pretend that he didn’t know John and Sherlock. At first he’d been able to content himself with checking in on them from afar—he’d walk by their flat, pass them in the grocery store, watch them crack cases together. The Doctor smiled lightly, remembering them running up and down the streets of London like much younger men.

The great Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, sure for all the world that they were nothing more than a Consulting Detective and an ex-army doctor, respectively. The Doctor had been a little worried that Sherlock might figure it out himself; human though he might be, his brilliant mind was still there. But he seemed content as a human, as did John, and neither looked into just why Sherlock’s mental capabilities seemed…well, a little more than human.

 _Funny,_ he thought. This must have been how Martha felt in the TARDIS, all alone. Alone and rather melancholy.

The Doctor heaved a sigh and pressed his fingers to his cheeks. “Alright, stop all this moping around!” the Doctor told himself firmly. “It won’t do you any good, and you’ve got to visit John and Sherlock last week. What week was that, again?” He flipped through the calendar Sherlock had taped to the TARDIS console during his stay with the Doctor.

Sherlock’s constant rejection hurt the Doctor more than he would ever admit. Back in the old days, Sherlock would’ve simply smiled that crooked smile that meant he was amused but trying not to be. Now, he just seemed annoyed. John, too. He had kept his gentleness and manners, but even that was pushed by the Doctor’s attentions. _It was only human_ , the Doctor thought.

He walked about the console, flipping switches and pulling levers. He braced himself as the TARDIS began its usual grinding and rocking.

He landed a week before the toilets visit, as John had said. What was it, he was going to look at the drains? Yes, that was it. He’d come to inspect the drains.

“Hello!” he said to their landlady when she came to the door. “I’m Smith, the London plumbing inspector, what’s your name?”

The visit went without a hitch. A little jumbled, because the Doctor wasn’t exactly sure what he should say on this first visit to prepare for his next one, but everything seemed to go well. Then the Doctor walked back down the street to the TARDIS, humming. All was in order, all was calm.

He grabbed a couple of jammie-dodgers from the TARDIS kitchen before sitting down in the console room. He ran his fingers over the notebook that John had left on the floor, then plucked it from the ground and sat down to read the last entry, munching on a biscuit.

It was written in Sherlock’s messy, scribbled handwriting. When Sherlock and the Doctor were talking over their human change, John was still unconscious, almost complete in his regeneration. Sherlock’s entry was in all capital letters, as usual. The black-haired time lord always had terrible handwriting, but he assured the Doctor that the capital letters helped him see things more clearly.

_THIS IS THE LAST JOURNAL ENTRY OF TIME LORD SHERLOCK HOLMES._

_IF YOU, READER, ARE ONE OF THE DOCTOR’S COMPANIONS AND HAVE JUST HAPPENED TO FLIP TO THIS PAGE, RETURN THIS JOURNAL TO THE DOCTOR IMMEDIATELY. THE TIME LORD LIVES OF JOHN WATSON AND SHERLOCK HOLMES ARE PRIVATE AFFAIRS, BETWEEN US AND THE DOCTOR._

_IF YOU, READER, ARE THE DOCTOR, THESE ARE INSTRUCTIONS FOR US IN OUR HUMAN LIVES._

The Doctor smiled. He’d left Martha a video journal, but a paper one was much more expedient. It was easier to skip around, and you didn’t have to watch a whole video to find one thing. Sherlock was better at succinctness, too. While the Doctor had many orders to Martha when he’d changed, Sherlock only had five orders of business.

_ONE: DON’T LET US FIND OUT WHAT WE ARE._

When John had nearly died in the Gamma Forests, Sherlock had insisted that being a time lord was too dangerous. He didn’t want to risk becoming one again, or possibly losing John. The Doctor hated that he hadn’t been able to protect them better, he hated that this was necessary, but it was too late now for foolish regrets.

_TWO: KEEP THOSE POCKET WATCHES CLOSE._

Sherlock had opted to leave both their pocket watches with the Doctor, worrying that someday one of them might open it on accident. The Doctor kept them in the pockets of his tweed blazer, and sometimes he took them out just to hear his old friends’ voices and not feel quite so lonely anymore.

_THREE: I TOLD YOU NOT TO WATCH OUT FOR US. ARE YOU STILL WATCHING OUT FOR US? IF YOU ARE, STOP._

When the Doctor had pointed out that being human was just as dangerous if not more so than being a time lord, Sherlock had glared at the Doctor and asked, “But we would be human. What kind of trouble can humans get into?”

 _Oh, Sherlock,_ the Doctor thought, chuckling to himself. _If only you could see yourself now._

This was one area where he had gone against Sherlock’s wishes. He had to take more direct intervention in Sherlock and John’s lives after the whole mess with Moriarty. It became obvious that he couldn’t just stand by and watch, unseen, as John and Sherlock almost got themselves killed. The Doctor had to visit regularly, he had to see them and get close to them so he could do a better job of protecting his two best friends. John had nearly gotten himself blown up, and that surely would do them no good.

_FOUR: REALLY, WE’LL BE FINE. JUST LEAVE US BE, LEAVE US TO GROW OLD TOGETHER._

            The Doctor’s hearts ached at this. _Grow old together._ John and Sherlock weren’t even in love as humans. Well, sure, maybe in the back of their minds; he’d still noticed John giving Sherlock those little looks, and Sherlock constantly brushed up against John whenever possible, although neither of them seemed to realize it. Subconsciously, their love would survive anything, even a complete biological makeover. ‘Soulmates’ was not a phrase that the Doctor used often, but he used it to describe John Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

            _FIVE: DOCTOR, MAKE SURE THAT JOHN AND I DON’T LEAVE EACH OTHER. DON’T LET US FORGET THAT WE LOVE EACH OTHER._

The Doctor remembered watching Sherlock hunch over this journal. Sherlock didn’t cry, no, he would never do that. But his ice blue eyes watered as he spent the last minutes he would ever have as a time lord writing down this most important command.

            _He had to have known_ , the Doctor thought, finishing off the biscuits and brushing the crumbs off his blazer. He had to have some idea that he and John might not love each other as humans. The Doctor himself had been confused by their human relationship; when he was only checking in on them, they went everywhere together, seemed to be in love, but only acted like platonic friends. But thanks to his poking and prodding, the Doctor knew the truth: Sherlock’s worst fear, falling out of love with John, had come true.

            “You must’ve known this one would be hard to do,” the Doctor said to the empty TARDIS. He stood up and walked across the console room to the mirror he had hung there. Sometimes, he would see his reflection across the room, and it would seem like there were more people there than just him. He said to his reflection, “What am I supposed to do, walk up and say, Oh, look, you two are actually in love.”

            He pictured their faces. Sherlock, oh, Sherlock wouldn’t let on that he was bothered, but inside he would be losing that brilliant time lord mind of his. There would probably be a great deal of shouting from John, on the other hand. The former soldier would be greatly annoyed by a strange man coming up and telling him he was supposed to be in love with his eccentric best friend. The Doctor almost smiled at the thought.

            Something flickered in the mirror, in the Doctor’s peripheral vision. He snapped around, wary. He brandished his screwdriver. “Hello?” he called into the depths of the TARDIS. It only echoed back at him. He frowned and walked in the direction of whatever it was he had seen. “Is somebody there?” he asked, walking down an empty corridor. He passed disused bedrooms, the occasional storage room, five separate hallways. He was about to give up with a self-deprecating laugh at his foolishness when something flashed around the next corner, as if there was something constantly staying just out of the Doctor’s sight. He broke into a run, skidded round the corner, and—

—was confronted with a dead end. The wall was so close to the corner that the Doctor almost ran into it. He frowned at it, patted all of its edges, licked a finger and held it up. No drafts, no secret seams, nothing. The Doctor took a step back and scratched the back of his head. “Old girl, what’s this all about?” he addressed the TARDIS. Sometimes it happened that she liked to play tricks on him, but this was a totally new game.

            As the Doctor stood glaring at this inexplicable wall, something crept across the hall behind him. He spun to face it, sonic in hand, but was yet again too late. Whatever it was had vanished, leaving nothing behind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because I'm going to be out of town this Saturday and won't have wifi. Hope you liked it!


	3. Chapter 3

            The strange plumber, Smith, had just left after his third visit, and Sherlock was peeking around the door of the bedroom like a scared little child.

            “Is he gone?” Sherlock asked, in the most dignified way a man hiding from a stranger can ask.

            John crossed his arms. “For God’s sake, come _out_ of there, Sherlock.”

            His flatmate shuffled into the den. “I don’t like that man, John,” he said simply, sitting down on the sofa.

            “You don’t—what?” John had to restrain his jaw from dropping. In his two years as Sherlock’s flatmate, he’d never once heard the dark-haired man express any emotional opinion about anything at all. He’d voice his irritations, certainly—“John, you’re thinking too loud, quit that,” or “This wallpaper is cloying.” But he’d never before said anything so simple and direct, John was sure of it.

            “I really dislike him, didn’t you hear me the first time?” Sherlock asked, sounding a little annoyed now. He steepled his fingers under his chin, staring into the distance. “He doesn’t make sense, and I dislike things that don’t make sense.”

            “ _Two_ whole things you dislike? There’s a stretch,” John said, scoffing. He rolled his eyes when Sherlock glared at him. “Alright, I’ll bite. What doesn’t make sense about him?”

            “John, were you not _watching_ the man?” Sherlock said, sounding as exasperated as always. John sat down in his favorite armchair and prepared himself for a lecture about just why Smith the London Plumbing Inspector made no sense. “His posture, for one thing. Completely off.”

            “What’s so wrong with his posture?” John asked.

            Sherlock made a wordless sound of frustration, presumably at John’s lack of acuity, before explaining, “I watched him from the bedroom window when he was walking out the door just now. He had his shoulders tensed, looked around like something could come up any minute and kill him, legs stiff when he walked, but at a fast pace. Most people would walk slowly when they’re on their guard, but he’s obviously accommodated to being always on the look-out, so I assume that’s his natural state. In our flat, however, he was completely relaxed. Anybody who was constantly wary would be a bit twitchy during periods of inactivity, the way you get when we’re on a slow case—”

            _And the way you get all the other times,_ John thought, but he kept it to himself.

            “—but Smith was totally, utterly relaxed, shoulders down, legs crossed. Think back to your army days. Do you know when you, a constantly wary man like Smith, would ever be calm?”

            “Um,” John said. When had he relaxed? “When I was among friends, around people I could count on to side with me.”

            “Exactly,” Sherlock said. John could’ve sworn he saw a quick flash of a smile, then it was gone. “This Smith thinks of us as his friends, his protectors, although he’s only a man doing his job and we’ve known him for all of three weeks. Back on the street, he’s clearly on edge, which begs the question—” Sherlock cut off and gave John an expectant look.

            “What…is making him on edge?” John asked hesitantly.

            A real grin lit up Sherlock’s pale face. “There you are, John! Knew you weren’t entirely hopeless.”

            “Thank you,” John said. This was as close to a compliment as he could get from the Consulting Detective. “But so what, he’s nervous on the streets? London’s a big place, it’s fine to be a little cautious, and maybe he’s one of those agoraphobic people.”

            “Then there’s the tea,” Sherlock said as if he hadn’t heard John. He was still staring out the window. “Don’t you find it odd that he always makes us tea? As if he’s been here before, and knows this place.”

            “He has been here before, Sherlock, he was here last week, and the week before that.”

            “Yes, but _he_ offers to make _us_ tea,” Sherlock said. “When you walk into a home, I assume that you don’t offer to use the owners’ kitchen appliances to whip up something, unless your manners are less than I thought they were.”

            “What’s your point?” John asked. “Maybe he’s just being friendly.”

            Sherlock held up one long white index finger. “But when _do_ you offer to make someone something to eat or drink?”

            “When they’re my guests,” John said.

            “Therefore,” Sherlock said, clearly pleased with John’s responses, “Smith not only views us as his friends, but his guests, as if this was his flat rather than ours.”

            John eyed his flatmate. “I dunno about all that,” he said slowly. “I think Smith’s just a weird bloke. A bit starved for company, maybe, but he doesn’t seem all that scary.”

            Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his eyes rolling up in his head. “We ought to investigate him,” he said.

            John paused, then smiled at his flatmate. “This isn’t about Smith, is it? You’re just really, really bored.”

            Sherlock made a small sound in the back of his throat, something like a strangled little sob. “I am _so_ bored!” he said. “Lestrade hasn’t given me anything in days, whole _days_ , John. Mrs. Hudson’s hidden all my nicotine patches, even the emergency ones. I need something to do, or I might just take it upon myself to remove this revolting wallpaper with a jackhammer.”

            “We could go out,” John suggested. “We could go get dinner at the new Thai place down the street, or we could go to a bar, or—”

            “Drinking dulls the senses,” Sherlock said, but he stood up and put his long coat on, wrapping his scarf around his throat.

            “You could have a soda,” John joked.

            “Let’s just get Thai,” Sherlock said, unamused. John rolled his eyes and followed Sherlock out the door.

            _Speaking of not making sense,_ John thought. _Take a look in the mirror once in a while._

            Sherlock hailed a cab and they sat down in the back seat. John watched Sherlock stare out the window. He imagined the gears turning in his friend’s head, making deductions about people passing them in the street. John could almost hear him thinking: that woman, wearing the pink coat, she’s coming back home to her wealthy husband after an affair with a man across town, that man, walking with his head down, he’s thinking about dinner and wondering if he can afford to go out since being fired, that man—

            Suddenly Sherlock’s whole body went rigid. “Stop the cab!” he shouted. John flew forward from the momentum, smacking his forehead into the back of the front seat.

            “Sherlock, what the—”

            “John, get out,” Sherlock said. He was already pulling open the door, practically falling into the street, weaving around cars, that long black coat billowing around him. John paid the cabbie a couple of pounds before running after his flatmate.

            Oh, he loved this part about his life with Sherlock. The adrenaline rush, the chase, the satisfaction of catching up, it was all part of the fun, and John wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything. He didn’t even know what they were going after, for all he knew, they were chasing down a stray cat, but he knew he’d follow Sherlock if he insisted on running straight into the Atlantic. The detective’s icy blue eyes were fixed straight ahead, narrowed, his lips pressed together until they were nearly white. John wanted to ask what they were doing, but he was having enough trouble keeping up with the other man’s much longer legs.

            Finally, they came to a corner a few blocks away, and Sherlock stopped, fast enough to have John almost run into him. With no explanation, Sherlock grabbed the shoulder of a man in front of them and spun him around. The man, a complete stranger to John, turned around with a startled expression on his face.

            Sherlock looked him up and down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought…I thought you were someone I knew.”

            The man shrugged his hand off. “Sorry, mate,” he said. “I’m not interested.” Then he walked away.

            Sherlock looked all around, frowning, muttering unintelligible things to himself.

            “Sherlock,” John said, hands on his knees and panting. “What the bloody hell are we chasing?”

            “I thought I saw something,” Sherlock said. He was barely ruffled by the run. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter.”

            “You just threw yourself onto the street for something that doesn’t matter?” John asked skeptically.

            “Trust me,” Sherlock said, “It doesn’t matter at all.” But his eyes were still narrowed, and he frowned slightly as he followed John down the street. Thanks to Sherlock’s earlier posture lecture, John could make a few deductions of his own. Shoulders tense, eyes focused straight ahead, head down in a kind of defensive posture—the detective was very on edge. Clearly, it did matter, but since Sherlock looked to be in no mood to explain, John decided to drop it.

            “Okay,” John said. “Do you want to go get Thai, still?”

            The detective only nodded stiffly. John glanced at him occasionally on the way to the restaurant, but he never changed his wary expression. During dinner, John had to make most of the conversation, Sherlock barely chipping in. He picked at his food and looked out the window throughout the meal. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say that his flatmate looked spooked.

            Sherlock’s words from earlier that day rang through John’s head. _Which begs the question…_

_What is making him on edge?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DAMN I wish I knew about the publication date feature last week. Ah well. This update only forty minutes into a Saturday, because tomorrow I move cross-country (holla). Hope you enjoyed it!


	4. Chapter 4

            The Doctor jerked awake in his bed on the TARDIS, woken by his own yelling. His breath came in shallow gasps. He sat up, bare chest heaving in the dim simulated moonlight coming from his bedroom’s fake window. “Sleeping—what a terrible idea,” he muttered to himself. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

            He’d had another nightmare about Sherlock and John. These nightmares happened all the time, now, a constant replay of John getting hit with the spear in the Gamma Forests, of Sherlock screaming his lover’s name as they were grabbed by the Gamma natives and pulled away from the injured time lord. Awful things, always on a loop in his brain.

            The Doctor wished Amy were still here. She would drag Rory down to the Doctor’s room, Rory would stand at the door asking what was wrong, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, while Amy slid into the bed next to the time lord and rubbed his back, mumbling soothing half-awake things. The two might never have gotten to raise a child, but the Doctor came pretty close to being their kid.

            The Doctor walked to the bathroom, splashing water on his face. He eyed his reflection in the mirror. “Oh, you are starting to look old,” he said to himself. He put his hands on his cheeks and pulled the skin down to inspect the dark half-circles under his eyes. He ran a hand through the back of his hair—shaggy, more so than he would like. There was a fine layer of stubble across his jaw, like a razed wheat field. “You are old,” he said with a rueful smile. He dried his face and walked out of the bathroom, back into his bedroom.

            And he stopped dead.

            “Oh, you’re not all that old, dear Doctor,” a familiar voice said. The man sat on the edge of the Doctor’s bed, head turned slightly to the side. He wore an amused half-smile. “Not as old as I am, anyways.”

            Incomprehensible stammering was the most the Doctor could manage. “How did—how did you—”

            “How did I get in?” the man asked. He stood and walked closer to the Doctor, still with that amused little smile. “That’s simple. Your TARDIS has a weak spot, you know. She’ll let the right person in if you ask her nicely enough.”

            “This is…” the Doctor spluttered. He felt like he was drowning. “You’re a human! This is just a phone box to you, how could you possibly know—”

            “Oh, honey,” the man smirked condescendingly. “I would have thought you’d know by now.”

            “Know what?” the Doctor shouted.

            In reply, the man only grinned, chuckling slightly. The Doctor walked over to him until they were so close, their foreheads were almost touching. “You listen to me,” he said, voice low and menacing. “I don’t know who you are, or what you are, but you should know this about me—I. Don’t. Like. Guessing. Games. Now, you tell me what in Gallifrey is going on, or I will dump you on the nearest planet without an atmosphere.”

            “Ah, Gallifrey,” the dark-haired man said, voice calm and sad. “Don’t we all miss it so. And the red grass? You can’t find it anywhere else, in any universe.”

            “You’re a time lord,” the Doctor said, mind reeling.

            “Not a time lord,” the man said. “ _The_ time lord.”

            The Doctor took a step back. “No,” he murmured, then louder, voice hoarse. “No. You died.”

            “Honey, I’m home!” the man said. He grinned, unblinking, at the Doctor. “You got it now?”

            The Doctor managed a terse nod. The man clicked his tongue against his front teeth. “Prove it. Say my name, sweetheart.”

            “Master,” he muttered through gritted teeth. “You’re the Master.”

            “And I’m also James Moriarty!” he said cheerfully, spreading his arms. “Oh, you’re looking a bit sick. Why don’t you have a seat.”

            The Doctor almost collapsed on his bed. The Master sat down next to him. “Any questions?”

            “You died,” the Doctor said.

            “Not exactly,” the Master said. “You see, I was sucked into the vortex with the other time lords. Rassilon wasn’t exactly pleased with my little hat trick, as you can imagine. The things he did to me! I went through two more regenerations, and when I managed to claw myself out of the void, I wound up as a four-year-old boy. Terribly disappointing, you understand. I couldn’t even go on rides at the fair.”

            “Is that why…” The Doctor swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Is that why I couldn’t sense you?”

            “That’s correct!” the Master said, clapping appreciatively. “I was adopted by a lovely human family—the Moriartys. About as ordinary as ordinary can be. I grew up human, cloaked in their stench. But you see, I wasn’t ordinary. I skipped about ten years of school, all told. I’d rather have skipped it all, but you just can’t make it in this world without at least some form of education. Isn’t that just adorable?”

            “What happened to them?” the Doctor asked. He realized he was shaking.

            “Who, the family?” he asked. He waved a dismissive hand. “They weren’t really my family, you know. What happened to them doesn’t matter.”

            “Master,” he said, his voice coming out hard and stony. “What happened to the Moriartys?”

            The Master shifted his weight uncomfortably. “The brother, Ned, went off to war. Got himself killed. The sister was real close to him, she offed herself, and then the mum went ‘round the bend. The dad had to commit her. He works as a mechanic in the country. I haven’t talked to him in years.”

            He talked in clipped little tones, like he was reading from a book. The Doctor gazed at him in awe. “You care about them,” he said.

            “What? Don’t be moronic, of course I don’t,” he said. He looked away from the Doctor. “Anyway, I was all set to become the world’s greatest genius when I graduated college. A little prodigy!” He smiled briefly, then it faded. “And then along came Sherlock Holmes.”

            The Doctor was jolted back to reality. “What’s Sherlock got to do with it?”

            “I was supposed to be the brightest, the best,” the Master said, almost pouting. “And then here’s this curly-haired upstart, the only Consulting Detective, and he goes and steals the spotlight away.”

            “So you murdered people because he was smarter than you?” the Doctor asked, a bit of a growl to his voice. “You’re deranged.”

            “Please, spare me the semantics, Doctor,” the Master said, rolling his eyes. “As if you haven’t killed innocents. They simply got caught in the crossfire. You know how it goes.”

            The Doctor opened his mouth to answer, but the Master went on. “Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted, I looked into this Sherlock fellow. He seemed oddly intelligent—on my level, and he a mere human!” he gave the Doctor a slanted grin. “But then, as it turned out, he wasn’t a mere human, was he?”

            The Doctor didn’t answer. “It is true, isn’t it?” the Master asked. “Sherlock Holmes is not a man. He couldn’t be anywhere near my intelligence levels if he were only human.”

            The Doctor shook his head vehemently. “No. No, he’s definitely human. He and John.”

            Too late, he realized he should’ve kept his mouth shut. Moriarty’s eyes widened slightly, and he leaned a little closer to the Doctor. “ _No_ ,” he almost purred. The man sounded delighted. “Not John, too.”

            “Not John,” the Doctor agreed, too quick. Both his heartbeats were picking up. Damn, what had he _done_?

            “It was all so simple!” the Master grinned and clapped his hands like a delighted little boy. “Frankly, I’m surprised I didn’t figure it out sooner.”

            “Leave them alone,” the Doctor said, helplessly. _Keep your mouth shut, old man,_ he thought.

            “This is just too good,” Moriarty said. He smiled happily. “Let me guess—John and Sherlock, they’re in love, no? But they can’t remember?”

            “How would you know?” the Doctor asked, spitting the words.

            “Believe me, I know. I was human, remember?” the Master said. He leaned in to the Doctor, giving him a wicked grin. “But I felt a strange attraction to you, as Yana. He was nothing but an old fool, but even he felt a need to protect you. Like John feels for Sherlock, and to an extent, Sherlock for John.”

            The Doctor flinched when he felt the Master’s breath brush his skin. Moriarty’s face was inches away from his. The Doctor closed his eyes. “That wasn’t love,” he said reluctantly.

            When he opened his eyes again, Moriarty was gone. The Doctor blinked a couple of times. Had it been another dream? Nobody could just disappear off the TARDIS like that, certainly not his TARDIS. Still shirtless, he ran out of his bedroom to the console room and did a quick scan for living beings onboard. The search turned up nothing. The Doctor took a deep breath and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. Despite all the obvious signs that the Master, alias Jim Moriarty, appearing onboard had been a dream, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was more than that.

            “Quit mucking about,” the Doctor told himself. “Let’s go pay Sherlock and John a visit.”

            It’d do his mind some good, he figured, to see his old friends again, even if they didn’t know who the hell he was. It might reassure him, calm his rattled nerves. He put the TARDIS in gear and landed a week after his shower visit, a couple blocks over from Baker Street. Sherlock and John were perceptive men, they wouldn’t not notice a telephone booth appearing on their corner in coincidence with his visits.

            When the Doctor knocked on the door, John answered instead of Mrs. Hudson. He looked resigned. “No offense, mate, but what could you possibly have left to inspect? You’ve taken a look at everything connected to a pipe.”

            His words stung, but the Doctor forged onwards. “I know, this is more of a social call,” he said with a grin.

            John looked startled. “Oh, well, in that case,” he said. “For me, or for Sherlock? I’m afraid he’s just gone out to visit Mycroft.”

            Good. They’re both alright. “I guess I’d like to visit you then.”

            John still seemed a bit taken aback, but he said, “Right, come on in,” and opened the door wide to allow him to walk in. The Doctor looked around at the familiar flat. It used to be grafted onto the TARDIS, actually, but with a complicated rewiring and a few pleas to the grumpy ship, he’d managed to sever the space from the TARDIS and convert it to 221B, an ersatz second floor of the original building. He’d learned that handy little trick from his time with Craig.

            “Ah, was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?” John asked the Doctor.

            He stopped his musings on the bit of work it’d taken to create 221B, and turned back to John. “You two are aliens, cloaked in human form, but right now one of my arch-nemeses has managed to find you, and now he’s out for blood. Your blood, as well as Sherlock’s. Do you know how to induce cardiac arrest on a man with two hearts?” His voice was earnest, serious.

            John’s jaw dropped, along with his look of mild surprise. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, but nothing came out. The Doctor abruptly grinned. “Only kidding!” he said. “Because that would be ridiculous, now, wouldn’t it?”

            “Er, yes,” John said with an uneasy laugh. He licked his lips, shifted back and forth on his feet like he wanted to punch the Doctor, but couldn’t find a logical reason to do so. Thank goodness, the Doctor knew John’s punches only too well, and he had no desire to feel one again.

            “Yes, just ridiculous,” the Doctor agreed for emphasis. As nice as it would be to tell them the whole truth, give them their pocket watches and have his friends back, he didn’t want to ruin their human lives just yet. He’d protect them from the Master the best he could, and he’d only tell them as an absolute last resort. That’s exactly what he would do. “Now, would you like some tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the mini-hiatus guys! I was overseas and didn't have wifi or my laptop, but I'm back now, so it should be smooth sailing til the end of the fic. Hope you enjoyed this one!


	5. Chapter 5

            Now that he had dropped his pretenses of checking out the plumbing, Smith seemed to be a regular at 221B. At first, John found his visits simply exhausting, but after the third visit in one week, he’d come to accept them. Maybe even enjoy them, if he was being honest, it was nice spending time with an odd plumbing inspector with a sense of humor and a gappy grin, rather than a bitingly sarcastic consulting detective with a whole world of enemies.

            Sherlock, on the other hand, did not share his sentiments (because when did he ever?). His initial hostility lessened into disdain, then complete disregard. He simply began ignoring Smith whenever he was in the room. At first, John figured the man would be offended by his treatment, as he seemed to be during his visit to inspect the toilet, but Smith now brushed Sherlock’s coldness off like nothing. It was truly rare for strangers to do that, most took Sherlock’s mannerisms personally, and then John would have to give out his time-tested spiel about “No, he _really_ is always like this, it isn’t about you.” Perhaps that was another thing that John found so refreshing about Smith, he seemed rather unflappable, but not in Sherlock’s annoying, look-over-a-brutal-murder-like-the-morning-paper kind of unflappable. Which of course bothered the dark-haired man, but at least, John thought, he’d stopped hiding in the bedroom.

            Three weeks passed quietly for John, or as quietly as they could when one is living with a high-functioning sociopath. Sherlock solved small cases—stolen savings bonds, missing murder weapons, and the like. John went on a date that ended with Sherlock throwing a fully cooked ham out the window, narrowly missing (Becca?) just as John was leaning forward to kiss her outside his door (he swore his flatmate did these things on purpose).

            Then, on a calm Friday, John came home to find the flat ransacked, and Smith standing amidst the wreckage, a frown on his long face. John dropped his sack of groceries and simply looked round at the mess. Smith turned at the noise and said, “John, now, before you say anything, this is Sherlock’s doing.”

            “What—why would he possibly turn the place upside-down,” John asked faintly. Living with Sherlock, he’d thought nothing would surprise him, but he’d been known to be mistaken on occasion.

            Smith hopped to his feet and adjusted his bowtie. Briskly, he said, “I stopped by, Mrs. Hudson let me up, and Sherlock was just—” The man made a series of waving gestures that meant utterly nothing to John. “—everything. I asked him what he was doing, he said someone broke in. Then his mobile rang and he kind of just billowed off in a huff.”

            “Someone broke in?” John asked. Smith nodded, rocking back and forth on his heels. “So Sherlock took it upon himself to _destroy_ our flat?”

            Smith sucked in a quick breath, let it out in a quick, anxious little chuckle. “Beats me,” he says. “I’m just the messenger.”

            John picked up the groceries again, continued inspecting the wreckage of his home. He stepped over a marble rolling pin that he couldn’t remember ever seeing before, walked to the kitchen, set the bags down on the island, and began packing them into the fridge. It was a little trick he’d learned from Sherlock, to process things later, and at the moment focus on what you have to do. John said to Smith, who had followed him into the kitchen like an anxious tweed-clad puppy, “About that. If Sherlock went out, why’re you still here?”

            “Waiting for you, of course,” Smith said, as though it were normal to just hang out in a friend’s ransacked flat and wait for him to come home.

            “How long have you been here?” John asked, setting the milk on its appropriate shelf, though it’d probably end up on the counter after his flatmate came back from…wherever he’d gone. Or, like as not, the floor.

            “Oh—well, not long at all, just a few hours.”

            “A few?”

            “Ehh…six,” Smith said.

            John blinked and furrowed his brow. He turned to his friend. “Has anyone ever said you’re a bit odd?” he asked, only half-joking. He’d gotten used to Smith’s odd mannerisms, but every so often, the man would still throw John for a loop.

            Smith just gave him a wide, childish grin in reply, an uncertain look in his eyes. John chuckled lightly and focused on getting all the groceries into the fridge. He’d let Sherlock have it whenever the dark-haired man bothered to return to the scene of his crime. For all John knew, this was part of an investigation of a break-in to the London Mayor’s home or something. “How’ve you been, Smith?” he asked.

            “Oh, you know, I’ve been me,” he said. “Which, I suppose, is something to be thankful for.”

            “Right, always is,” John said. Like he’d said—used to it. “Plumbing doing alright?”

            “Yes, yes, business is good,” Smith said. “People are always needing their pipes inspected.”

            _I wouldn’t think as much from your ability to pop in at all hours,_ John thought. But perhaps being a plumbing inspector had benefits, like being able to schedule yourself as you pleased. His credentials had checked out—even Sherlock had been satisfied with them. Still, though John trusted the man, a little voice sometimes whispered doubts at the back of his brain, saying that despite all evidence to the contrary, there was something just plain _off_ about the man. John chalked it up to his soldier’s brain, compounded with a couple years of healthy skepticism gained from life with a consulting detective.

            Besides, the voice wasn’t always trustworthy. For instance, it often appeared in the mornings after John woke up from a dream about Sherlock, telling him he’d seen this dream before in real life. Seen Sherlock lying on his back, pale chest heaving, pupils shrinking the rings of glacial blue— _okay, John, that’s_ enough _for right now._ John snapped himself out of his thoughts and firmly closed the door on that particular train of thought, the way he always did. John said to Smith, who was looking mildly concerned at the sudden awkward silence, “I bet Missus Smith appreciates that, eh?”

            Smith looked taken aback, as if he were amazed John would even ask that. “Ah, no, no Missus Smith.”

            “Hm? A…Mr. Smith, perhaps?” John asked. _It’s a normal thing to ask after a spouse,_ he rationalized to himself. But Smith looked like John had suggested he spent his afternoons doing naked laps round the community swimming pool. For some reason, it just seemed right that Smith would have a wife. A red-haired wife, with a lilting accent. John shook his head imperceptibly. _Where’d that come from?_

            At this, Smith looked amused. “Hasn’t been for quite some time,” he said with a small laugh. John nodded, _Right_. Redhead (Irish? Scottish?) apparition nothing more. “How about you, John?”

            “Oh, well, ‘Confirmed Bachelor’ John Watson doesn’t have anything going on at the moment, certainly nobody hiding in the cupboard,” John said. “Living with a consulting detective has its downsides, and getting shot at by Chinese assassins isn’t any woman’s idea of romance, I’m afraid.” Groceries packed, John said, “Would you like some tea? Figured it’d be better if I made it, for a change.”

            Smith opened his mouth to answer, and at the same moment Mrs. Hudson peeked in through the door. “Hullo, John,” she said in her typical friendly tone, then she saw Smith standing by. He waved awkwardly at her, in the brief way of a shy child. John’s landlady drew herself to full height, and said as coldly as she could, “Mr. Smith, you’re still here.”

            John fought back an exasperated sigh. Since Smith started coming over regularly, Mrs. Hudson became convinced that John was having an affair. No matter how many times he asserted the fact that he _one hundred percent_ was not gay ( _well, perhaps ninety percent,_ the voice at the back of his mind muttered), for Sherlock ( _debatable_ , said the voice) or any other bloke, she wouldn’t hear of it.

            “That I am!” Smith said, smiling pleasantly at her.

            “Mrs. Hudson, what d’you need?” John asked quickly. He wasn’t trying to be impolite, but sometimes it was best to take a page out of his flatmate’s book and get to the point.

            She broke off her staring match with the plumbing inspector and said, “Have you heard from Sherlock? It’s been hours since he went out, and he was in such a terrible state.”

            “I haven’t, no,” John said, concern rising in his throat. ‘Terrible state’ could be anything from _nicotine withdrawal_ to _bleeding from every orifice_. Though Smith hadn’t said anything to indicate the possibility of the latter. “Do you want me to ring him?”

            “No, no, I’ve tried,” she said. Her tiny hands fluttered like moth wings. “Any idea where he might be?”

            Mrs. Hudson was used to Sherlock’s moods, and she knew his haunts as well as John did. The more rational side of John was saying, placating, _Look, he’ll turn up after supper, smelling like he crawled out of a pub’s rubbish bin, arms covered in patches. It’s just normal Sherlock stuff._ Nothing out of the ordinary. But John felt a sinking in his chest, a familiar tug of anxiety. Different from the occasionally wrong voice, it was more of instinct. And after ignoring instinct got a bullet put through him, he’d learned to follow it whenever it did arise. He turned to Smith and said, “Sorry about the tea, mate—another time? I’d better go make sure Sherlock hasn’t got himself steamrolled.”

            “Oh, yes, absolutely,” Smith said. Mrs. Hudson gave him a suspicious look, then slowly walked back downstairs. John grabbed the coat he’d just taken off, and was halfway out the door, Smith at his side, when the other man said, “Would you like me to come with you?”

            For a brief moment, John actually considered it. _It might be nice to bring along someone else, and besides, Sherlock brought Molly into it all the time, this is the same thing, right?_ But he quickly dismissed the idea. Sherlock involved Molly because she knew what she was doing and could help him solve the case, John highly doubted that a plumbing inspector, even one with good intentions, could assist with anything. Besides, it’d be terrifically embarrassing to drag Smith along on a red-alert call, and find Sherlock taking a stroll along the Thames.

            “I’ll be fine, thanks. I really am sorry I’ve got to run like this—would you want to go for drinks later?” John asked.

            Smith smiled and shook his head, all pleasantness. “Not at all, that’s quite alright, I have some, ah, business to attend to later this evening, however. So, perhaps another time?”

            By then they were out the door and on Baker Street. “Anytime, mate,” John said. Smith nodded, waved, and walked away in the opposite direction. It occurred to John that he’d never spent any time with Smith in public—Smith always came to him, typically unannounced, they had tea and chatted about the news. This was the first time that John had tried to invite Smith out. _There’s not much strange about that,_ John reasoned, perhaps he _is_ anxious about something, like Sherlock had said. Besides, now wasn’t the time to think about that. He put his hand out for a cab.

            His three texts to his flatmate all went unanswered. When John arrived at St. Bart’s, Molly told him Sherlock had come in this morning looking a bit disheveled, asked her to run some tests on a fiber sample, and left immediately after she gave him the results.

            “Which were?” John asked. Well, this killed the idea that it was just research for a case. There had been a break-in at 221B, and Sherlock had gone to investigate.

            Molly had a wide-eyed look on her face. She often reminded John of the women he’d met in Afghanistan, all eyes, eyes harboring a quiet unspoken nervousness, eyes that had seen everything. She said, “Just a few polyester threads—nothing special. Is something the matter with him?”

            “I certainly hope not,” John said, tried for a smile. He could feel that instinct rising in him again. He hadn’t had it all the other times Sherlock had disappeared without warning, no cause for alarm at all. This time was somehow different, he just didn’t know _why_. “I’ll text you when I find him,” John said, and hurried out of the lab.

            Back on the sidewalk, he looked around. If Sherlock were here, he’d immediately know which direction to go in. But, of course, the whole issue was that Sherlock _wasn’t_ here. John saw a haggard man, leaning against one of the hospital gates’ walls, croaking for change beneath his bristled mustache. John figured, _As good a start as any,_ and walked over to the man.

            “Could you spare a pound?” the man croaked, then coughed violently into the sleeve of his jacket.

            Even John could see the early signs of tuberculosis. He pulled out his wallet, sorted out ten pounds and set it in his cup. The man smiled, revealing a few straggling yellow teeth. John leaned closer and said, “I don’t suppose you’d know where Sherlock Holmes is, do you?”

            The man looked around, then asked, “Are you John?”     

            “That’s me.” John pulled out his badge from the hospital.

            The man scrutinized it, then said in a conspiratorial voice, “He said you’d come lookin’. Said he didn’t want to be found unless it was you.”

            John sincerely hoped that by _found_ , the consulting detective wasn’t implying _dead in a ditch._ “Right, well, could you tell me where he was headed?”

            “Old den up by Piccadilly,” the man croaked.

            John frowned. Piccadilly? What the bloody hell was Sherlock doing up there? And in a drug den? Surely a break-in wasn’t enough to set Sherlock back to his old habits. There was still a doubtful little part of him muttering that it could well be part of a case, but most of John was thrown into finding his flatmate, and give him hell for scaring Mrs. Hudson. He gave the homeless man a few extra pounds. He wheezed his thanks. John said, “You might want to get that cough checked out.”

            The man’s cracked lips split his face almost in half, showing blackened molars and spotted gums. “We all die sometime, John,” he said.

            John walked away, the man’s coughing laughter echoing in his ears.

 

 

 

            It took John two hours to find Sherlock, just as the sun was starting to set. ‘Old den up by Picadilly’ turned out to be less helpful than John thought it would be. John got himself through questioning almost everyone he met, walking every centimeter of Picadilly, almost getting run over by tourists, by telling himself, _If he’s fine, I’m going to finish what Moriarty started._

            Then John found him lying flat on his back, tucked into one of the shadows of an alley wall. There was a Chinese place at the end of the street that John thought would be good for dinner before heading back home in defeat. He was halfway through the alley when a faint voice breathed his name.

            Not ‘breathed his name’ in a romantic sense, ‘breathed his name’ as in ‘weakly put whatever air he had toward calling for help.’ John looked around, saw the flash of a blinking eye in the shadows, and rushed to find his flatmate lying with his eyes closed, breathing hitching. He had his arms crossed over his chest like a man lying in a coffin.

            “Jesus, Sherlock,” John said, scanning his friend. Minor contusion over his cheekbone, bloody nose, so possibility of concussion. He was absolutely soaked from lying in a filthy puddle, and he was shivering, which probably didn’t feel good combined with the punctured lung evidenced by his breathing.

            “Mobile gone,” Sherlock forced out. He sounded worse than the No Smoking Posterman back at the hospital. “I’ve got to tell—”

            “Alright, that’s enough,” John said, pulling out his own phone. “I’m calling an ambulance for you. We can talk later.”

            “John,” Sherlock wheezed. One of his arms automatically went to his chest, he grimaced. “I saw him.” John could hear the little voice in his ear asking him what his emergency was, but he didn’t answer it. His eyes were focused on Sherlock’s bloody face, his glazed blue eyes. He forced out, “Moriarty. He’s back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SO SORRY THIS IS LATE ;_; And right after I promised I'd update on time too......I've been having some severe computer difficulties that make it hard to write, much less post. Anyway, I'll worry about that later and do my best to have the next chapter up on time. Hope you enjoyed this one!


	6. Chapter 6

Okay, I don't normally do this. But at the moment, this fic is taking up a lot more of my time than I planned, so, I apologize but I'm going on indefinite hiatus. I've got a lot of other projects I'm working on, when I've got a little more time I'll come back, and in the meantime I'm still going to be writing other fics. I've got this one planned out basically to the end, and if enough people are interested, I can come back sooner rather than later. Sorry to bother you, Cheers!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I'm awful at writing long chapters. Hope you like it!


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